


Tower Princess, Ravished

by Amanuensis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-09
Updated: 2006-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-26 11:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanuensis/pseuds/Amanuensis
Summary: No one hates the idea of Slut!Harry more than Harry does.





	Tower Princess, Ravished

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Not really AU; the details of Sirius's return are just not in this particular tale. Thanks to my betas Cluegirl and Florahart. Written for Foreword in the 2005 Sirry Slash Secret Santa exchange. Happy Holidays to you, Foreword! May all your Sirry dreams come true. :D  


* * *

When he thinks of it, Harry imagines Sirius seducing him.  
  
He's not experienced. He's had his hands on the back of a girl's body, but not below the waist, and on the front his hands never moved below the neck.  
  
With boys, nothing. Zip, nada, zilch. All he has is the comfort that he himself is a boy, and knows what he likes, and it's something but it's not enough.  
  
And Sirius isn't a boy. He's a man.  
  
He's worse. He's twenty years older than Harry, and he was best friends with Harry's father and there's this label that stands between them, one that starts with _god_ and isn't that just bloody perfect, the way it looms like a condemning eye over all his thoughts.  
  
So Sirius is not going to seduce him. Harry can accept that truth, though he'll not deny his fantasies.  
  
But that leaves the alternative that Harry just can't see: him seducing Sirius. Him slipping into Sirius's arms or his bed one night, all clever persuasion and perfect logic, well-timed kisses and soul-searching looks and pouts that make him look sultry and irresistible instead of a stupid child whining for something he can't--and shouldn't--have.  
  
Harry hasn't any of that in his arsenal. He won't unless he finds someone to practice it upon, and he doesn't want anyone else, he wants Sirius. Which loops him right back around to the beginning.  
  
Hopeless, he tells himself, and the thing is he knows it's not. It's not, because he wants this too badly, and because Sirius, he's learned--from sources that would wince and cover their eyes if they'd learned he'd been eavesdropping--is what his closest and dearest call _omnisexual_ ("if you won't fuck it, Padfoot'll hump it, you randy bugger"), and that he acknowledges Harry's grown up rather fit ("Quite fanciable--he'll have no lack of company, bless him. And he smells delicious, you notice?" "I try not to, Sirius, and you shouldn't either." "Just observing, Moony. Best-interests-at-heart godfather, and all that").  
  
So he's got to convince Sirius that he has better ideas about his own best interests.  
  
He just wishes he could be _seduceable_.  
  


* * *

  
  
The idea comes to him and won't stop winding its way around his brain, looping by as if it's on a track and becoming more fleshed with each circuit.  
  
If he were a girl, it wouldn't be so hard to put the idea in front of Sirius. A look, a lingering conversation, and surely the spark would fire in Sirius's head. It's the way of things. Girl even shows interest in a bloke, first thought is that she might--must--like him that way. But because Harry's a male, he's going to have to spell it out so plainly he might as well shove his tongue down Sirius's throat, for all the good subtlety will do him.  
  
And he doesn't know if he can be that bold.  
  
But if he were a girl...  
  
He doesn't mean it literally, though he knows there are likely spells for exactly that sort of thing. There are spells for everything--for turning people upside down and subduing pixies and shoving a wad of gum up another person's nose, for God's sake--so there's got to be one for that.  
  
But he can't see it giving him the effect he wants. He wants Sirius to want him as he is, as Harry, and so pulling a stunt like that wouldn't be a proper test. It'd be desperate.  
  
No point in him reminding himself he _is_ desperate.  
  
But he doesn't have to be a girl. He wants an unmistakable display for Sirius, and thinks that all he needs are the girl-like trappings to set it out for him. Not a setup that screams "wanton," but feminine, _vulnerable,_ submissive. Ripe for the plucking.  
  
Of course, he hasn't any experience with this, either. And if he doesn't want to balls this up as badly as he knows he can, he's going to have to remedy that.  
  
He can't think of a soul to ask. Hermione? Rubbish. If he could be certain it would all work out with Sirius, he could go to her, but if it all goes pear-shaped then he'll have to look at her and imagine her looking at him and _thinking_ and pitying...no.  
  
Both Wizarding and Muggle girls have the same objectives, though, and it's little difficulty for Harry to lay hands on leftover copies of _Witch Weekly_ and _Elegance_ \--if he's seen with them, he can give in to the reflex to blush and let others assume he's got more mundane lascivious thoughts, looking at photos of half-dressed girls--and find most of what he needs to know in order to begin experimenting. He's a little reluctant to use spell-methods exclusively; you mess up Muggle lipstick, all you have to do is wipe it off and begin again, but with magic you could end up Plum Crazy-stained for a week, and wouldn't that be bloody awkward to explain.  
  
The alternative, though, is to _buy_ everything from Muggle shops, and, God, he doesn't think he can face that either. The cosmetics--bad enough. The clothing--no. Just, flat no. One single, "For your girlfriend, then, dear?" and he'd choke and flee, he knows it.  
  
Before he can take himself too far down the tangent that if he can't buy a sodding pair of satin knickers then how on earth does he think he's mature enough to start a sexual relationship with a man twenty years older than him, Harry throws himself into a compromise. Owl post and mail order for everything that can be bought that way, and forays into shops for those items that'll raise no overt eyebrows. Magical tailoring's most reliably done when you have the component materials to begin with, and men's silk handkerchiefs and poster glitter don't get him into any counter confrontations.  
  
By the time he does brave the frilliness of a "Misses" department to purchase a scarf of satin and spangles, he's able to say "Gift-wrap that, please?" with a wistful look that earns him a dimpling and an, "Of course, love," from the shop woman, and is feeling bold and jaunty when he walks out with the package beneath his arm. On his way home he stops at a chemist's, purchases gum, toothpaste, crisps, a packet of safety razors, newspaper, condoms, and two plastic-egg-cased pairs of nylons without raising his own heart rate more than a little. All the cashier hesitates over is the toothpaste, which turns out to be on sale.  
  
This isn't so hard after all.  
  


* * *

  
  
But it's harder than if he'd been able to ask Hermione. Going it alone--learning to apply eyeliner and rouge so that he doesn't look like a stupid child who got into his mother's dressing table one afternoon, magicking up clothing (middy blouse and miniskirt? black lace bodystocking and pearls?) that says _feminine_ and not _clown_ on him--takes him days, and then it isn't sufficient that it be _good enough_ , no, it's got to be _perfect._ Which means he wonders if softly blushing is better than darkly kohl-lined, if dove-grey suits him better than sea-green. The need to get it right is so obsessive he doesn't even stop to ask himself if he's enjoying it too much.  
  
And when he's got his answers--when he can survey himself in the mirror and the mirror says, "Quite fetching, darling," and he can think, yes, not bad, in return--there comes the next stumbling block. _How_ is he to present this to Sirius? He'd imagined himself positioned in the center of Sirius's bed for him to find, a satin-and-mascara ornamented present for Sirius to unwrap. Now it seems absurd. It's that damned _seduceable, not seducer_ plaguing him again, and he can be bold enough to stand here in high heels and pose but he can't take those few steps into Sirius's bedroom that will cross that abstract, yet all too forbidding line. Oh, he's _useless._ All this and he's helpless because he wants to be the pursued and not the pursuer.  
  
Which gives him the answer. He can do it--he just has to modify it.  
  
Not Sirius's bed, but his. He needs to be _caught_.  
  


* * *

  
  
A short little rap at his door, the kind that knows the person's on the other side. "Harry?"  
  
They're the only ones in the house. He knows that. He's got nothing to be afraid of. Nothing, he tells himself. "Come in."  
  
The door swings open. The anti-cliché gods are smiling on Harry, and Sirius doesn't stop mid-sentence in a garble--he sees Harry, reclining there on the bed, before he starts to speak, and, yes, his eyes go wide and his lips separate, but that's all. And the luck gods have at least decided to give Harry the first of the dice rolls--Sirius doesn't stumble backwards or swing the door shut again with a hasty "sorry!" or do anything but stand there.  
  
Harry knows luck gods need all the help they can get. "You can come in. I said you could," he says, and is amazed how steady he sounds.  
  
And Sirius, not taking his eyes off Harry, does step forward, one step, then another. His fingertips are still on the door, and--oh, Harry will find a proper sacrifice for the luck gods tomorrow, he will--he pushes the door shut. Behind and not before him.  
  
"Do you hate it?" Harry asks, and his voice isn't small, no, not at all. It's reluctant and shy, but it's not small.  
  
Sirius stares and Harry knows what he sees. Harry went with the kohl, but not too much of it, only on the lower lids; and the sole other color on his face is gold. A pale trace of gold on his lips, a dusting of it on his lashes and over his cheekbones, enough to catch the light. He thinks perhaps the look is not too girlish to be ridiculous on him, but might make him look like some exotic slave _boy_ , so he's dressed to match. The silk swathe covering his groin is meant to look genderless, not a skirt, but too thin and fluttery to be a loincloth. The necklace that reaches the center of his bare chest is jeweled (fake, of course) but the single earring is a plain gold dangle. And he's abandoned the heels for flat sandals that lace to his knees. Though he kept the stockings. They're sheer, and stay up by magic, so there are no garters to interrupt the look. And he really liked the way his legs looked in them.  
  
Harry can't bring himself to stretch, show off for Sirius--this is hard enough, telling himself that it's all right, because Sirius came into _his_ room. He's gone as far as he can with this; because he's in his own room, he doesn't have to worry about himself retreating. He's laid it out--laid himself out--for Sirius, and given Sirius an easy exit.  
  
It's that last which chokes Harry. He's thought he was doing the honorable thing, not forcing himself on Sirius, but it's suddenly too much to bear. Imagining Sirius shaking his head, a little appalled by his godson, leaving him here--what was he thinking? No. He'll fling himself between the door and Sirius, promise to wash off the whole mess, tell him it was a lark, anything as long as Sirius gives him a chance--  
  
"No," says Sirius, and it's a hoarse note as if he hasn't spoken in hours. "No, I don't hate it. Let me--let me look at you," he says, though he's been looking at nothing but Harry. _Look_ means that he takes a step forward, and another, and Harry finds himself sitting up straighter as Sirius sinks down onto the bed next to him, only on the very edge, gingerly. Sirius is never _ginger_ about anything, and at first Harry thinks that this is awful, but then there's a complete change in Sirius's posture; he leans forward, and has Harry's chin between his thumb and finger.  
  
"You're lovely," says Sirius, and Harry is dizzy. "You--you were waiting--did you do this for me?" His eyes flicker down Harry's body but return to take up Harry's gaze again.  
  
Harry nods, and knows in that moment there is no seducer and no seduced in this room, no innocent, no slut, no fainting maiden and no cheap slag--there's need and want and truth and something so important that surges behind his breastbone that he knows he has to tell it to Sirius if he could only locate the words.  
  
Sirius exhales. "Well. You thought this out, didn't you."  
  
Harry knows he needs to answer. "I think about you. Only you. All the time."  
  
"God, Harry." Another exhale. It sounds like the prelude to a pant. "I'm rather good at keeping my hands to myself when I'm _not_ wanted, but--" That hand of his, which was at Harry's chin, is now lying against his neck, and it's warm and it's damp--just a little--and it's moving down to the join of Harry's neck and shoulder where it fingers the necklace and Harry can see Sirius swallow as if dry-mouthed and Sirius's mouth is ever so close to Harry's own.  
  
"Please," Harry breathes, thinking he might die of it.  
  
And Sirius leans forward and it's perfect, it's Sirius's mouth on his--Sirius kissing him and not Harry pretending he knows exactly what he's doing and making a tart of himself. Which means that it's all right for Harry to kiss back and show his silly, face-reddening lack of experience, because Sirius thinks he's lovely and Sirius doesn't want to keep his hands off him and if Harry needs to be taught how _men_ kiss properly that's fine, it's so very, very fine.  
  
"Where did you--"Sirius starts to say as he pulls his mouth away, and then, "Oh," they both say together, because Sirius's hand is on Harry's leg and he's feeling the stockings. _"Oh,"_ Sirius says again, louder, _"Christ--"_ and it's low and hungry and he reaches under Harry's skirt/swathe/wrap and seizes Harry's arse in one hand and pulls him forward. Harry feels how his legs part as Sirius does this, how one knee curls back and both knees spread so that Sirius can pull him onto his thighs, straddling him, Harry's cock reacting to the silk and to Sirius's thighs and to Sirius as his balls feel the friction of that denim-covered thigh and draw up even tighter.  
  
Another kiss--Harry knows he was right; the way Sirius kisses him stirs only a dim echo of memory in the way he's ever kissed before, and stirs an entire world's difference of arousal now. There are tongues and teeth and mouths in these kisses, as if the idea that kissing was only ever about _lips_ is ludicrous. He gasps, he hears Sirius groan, feels him groan into his own open mouth and the electricity of it runs all the way down to his cock, which is pressing into Sirius's hip as Sirius presses him back into the bed with as much force as he pulled him forward, just a minute before.  
  
"These stay on," Sirius growls, his hand sliding along Harry's thigh and the stocking again. "This--" he pulls on the silk wrap--"is coming off you now, you fucking sexy brat. Oh, fuck, yes," he says as he uncovers Harry's cock, already vertical and then some. "You're gorgeous."  
  
Harry sees the predatory look on Sirius's face and thinks he's going to seize Harry's cock; instead, Sirius winds the silk between his hands and then draws it about the very base of Harry's shaft, sliding it upwards in a caress that has Harry arching and gasping and fearful that he's already on the verge of coming.  
  
Sirius lifts the silk away and there's a wet streak down the center of it. Sirius brings that wet discolored streak up to his face and licks it, looking down at Harry as he does so, who inhales and feels his vision go foggy, just for a moment. Sirius doesn't smile, but there's no mistaking his satisfaction as he reaches out and picks up both of Harry's hands in one of his.  
  
His hands get pulled all the way up to the headboard, where Sirius uses that silk to wrap his wrists to the center post and ties it there, nothing that Harry couldn't slip out of if he wanted to but he doesn't want to; he takes the taut portion of it that runs between the post and his wrists in his hands and holds on, looking back up at Sirius, who is kneeling over him and opening the top button on his jeans, then wrestling with his shirt as if he can't think where to begin.  
  
Sirius has the shirt off and his fingers go back to the waist of his trousers, but he stops there. "I should spell the door locked." But then after only a moment he resumes, buttons giving way one by one. Harry sees the shadow of dark hair and that Sirius is wearing nothing beneath. "Or maybe I shouldn't. Might be fun, having someone walk in and see the look on their face."  
  
Sirius grins as he says that and all Harry can do is suck in breath, watching Sirius tease him, imagining. "You'd never," he says, knowing it's exactly the right response.  
  
"Oh, I think I'd like it," Sirius continues as he sheds the last of his clothing. "They come in, see you like this, see me ready to fuck you--" Harry nearly breaks on those last two words-- "want to be shocked but then they see that pretty face of yours and they can't look away." Sirius is lean but at last has lost that look of _far too thin_ that's haunted him so long, and he's hairy from navel to feet and his cock is just beginning to lift away from his body, and as he speaks, Harry watches it rise higher still. "And I say, yeah, that's right, I'm the one that made him dress that way, forced him to do it, because I knew he'd look fucking gorgeous and he doesn't dare say no to me. And then I'd ask them to stay for the show."  
  
And Sirius sets a knee on the bed and pushes Harry's stockinged legs apart, spreading him open with his hands on the insides of Harry's thighs as he settles between them, and Harry gives his own small explosive, "Oh, fuck," as Sirius ducks his head and licks--not his cock, but his balls, nudging them with nose and tongue, bathing the entire sac and tangling in the hair on and about it. His tongue flickers behind, right into the crack of his arse, and Harry feels everything recede in a warm haze, staving off his own orgasm with less difficulty than he would have imagined so that the hazy moment won't leave him just yet.  
  
And when Sirius lifts his head and his mouth sinks over the end of Harry's cock, Harry wants to beg him to wait but something tells him Sirius won't listen, and that pushes Harry to the edge even faster, thinking that, and Sirius hums like he's just found something impossibly delicious, and it's as if the suction and friction of Sirius's mouth and tongue are only secondary measures to get Harry to orgasm, what with everything else.  
  
Sirius pulls away at that moment, though, but Harry doesn't regret it because Sirius is crawling up over him, his own eager prick bumping against the rock-hard length of Harry's, as he murmurs, "I should fuck your arse until you scream my name and you do bring someone running. You're too beautiful like this to waste on just me alone." Harry wants to protest that that isn't true, except he's too caught up on the first idea and Sirius is actually spitting a gob of moisture into his palm and rubbing it over his own cock, and he doesn't push Harry's knees up but forces them wider apart instead, and he cradles Harry's balls with his other hand and lifts them up and away from his cleft, and then Sirius pushes his hips and his cock forward and slides the cock between Harry's buttocks, shifting back and thrusting, doing it again, slickened by that bit of wetness and not, it seems, seeking Harry's arsehole more than as a passing spot to rub against--neither of them could last long enough for that, Harry realizes.  
  
Sirius's hands clutch at Harry's arse, moulding him about Sirius's cock as Sirius's thrusts get faster, as his groans become more frenzied. Harry pulls at the silk about his wrists with a force that makes the headboard protest badly, and one of Sirius's hands comes to seize Harry's cock in a grip that nearly presses his erection flat on his own belly. "Come for me, Harry. Want to watch you dirty your pretty little self up." And it's that even more than the fingers dancing over the length of his prick that does it; Harry cranes his neck back and moans, feeling himself burst as the stream of his ejaculate spills over his stomach, his chest, the links of the jeweled necklace and even touching his gold-painted lips and cheeks with warm, obscene drops.  
  
He's boneless, brainless, on another plane entirely, but when the crack of his arse floods with Sirius's own orgasm and Sirius snarls and buries his face against Harry's come-streaked neck, he doesn't miss that. He doesn't return from that plane for a long time, though--he just grants Sirius admission to it, and drifts, rapturous.  
  
He thinks there is sleep in there as well; it seems they've reached another year entirely before Sirius shifts, reaching up to lace his fingers with one of Harry's bound hands--but not release them. "You really are fucking beautiful like this, " he says. "Not--that you need to go to these lengths every time. Gorgeous no matter what, really."  
  
 _Every time._ Harry didn't think he needed anything else to make him happier, but those two words fill him so full he almost gets hard again. "But you liked..." he begins, and then finds he can't finish, all boldness fled.  
  
"Dirtying you up? Fuck, yes. Can't wait to do it again," Sirius supplies and answers, and gives him a kiss at the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Neither can I," says Harry, and this time the kiss is slower, thorough, and there's no mistaking its meaning.  
  
When it's over, Sirius smiles, and casts amused, almost sheepish eyes towards the door. "Of course, I suppose we should get into the habit of locking the door, from now on."  
  
"I don't think I want you to," Harry breathes, remembering, feeling his cock stir just a fraction against Sirius's belly.  
  
"Oh, you don't, do you?" Sirius leans back and gives Harry a slap on the hip. "Turn over then, and get on your knees. Don't think I'm untying you, either." Harry's not at all confounded by this, but it's the dark grin on Sirius's face and Harry's own growing erection that have him momentarily incapable of obeying. "I'm going to tongue that pucker of yours for a solid hour," says Sirius, "and if we do get any trespassers in here--I'm going to invite them to join in."  



End file.
